Blood and Ash
by IncanPriest
Summary: Somewhere in the shadows he lurked, hoping she wouldn't see him, no matter how desperately he longed for her company. In the Murder House she dreamt of escape though confinement had previously been her wish. Over the space of months, even years Violet and Tate start breaking down the veil that is parting them and she tries to find a way to make it all end.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: None of the characters portrayed are of my own creation. American Horror Story is the creative property of Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk. Rated T.**

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

The wood of the window-frame beneath her fingers was warm from the memory of the afternoon sun. She could just stand there. Perhaps sit on the window-ledge. Hell, she might as well just jump out. _It wasn't like it made a difference anymore_, she realised letting out a bitter huff at the thought of being dead anyway.

Some might think it was tragic to pass away at such a young age. She just felt bullshitted by fate for being stuck in that house with a host of crazy ghosts. Of course she still had her family with her, but she figured her parents were too wrapped up in their joy over their creepy, never-aging baby to remember she was also still there.

It wasn't all bad though. She had enough to occupy herself with as there were quite a few books, also boxes of stuff left there years ago that she found in the attic and basement and there was always Bo, who she played with for hours on end, the only trace of his existence being the red ball he would roll in her direction. But time passes slowly when it loses all meaning and stretches out into the daunting prospect of eternity.

And what frightened her the most was the question, when their Internet connection would be cut. After all, her laptop was her only link to the outside world, of which she still considered herself a part.

Her fear was probably founded in the observations she made of some of the other inhabitants of the house. _And wow were they bat-shit._ One of her greatest questions was whether she would walk around planning dinner parties for people who had died decades ago, like she had seen Nora do.

But for the moment, she guessed, with her head out the window, looking up at the clear night sky, she would have to wait. What for, stayed an unanswered question.

With one leg swung out already, she dragged the rest of her body behind her, supporting her weight with her hands that were steadied on the wood, which was faded by many days of exposure to the elements. Perhaps it had once been dark brown, perhaps not. For a second she contemplated letting herself drop down to feel the sensation of her stomach pushing up against her lungs, squeezing what little air was left in them out in a silent cry. But Violet was hardly masochistic, and she figured she could do without the pain of crashing onto the paved pathway beneath her feet and feeling her bones crush from the impact, for the time being.

So she decided to just look out at the world she was actually allowed to walk out into once a year. _Wow. Props to whoever had thought of that deal. _

Pulling a half-smoked cigarette out of the pocket of her trousers she prayed she would be able to light it again. Lately, she had had to ration them, as her pack was almost empty and Constance objected to buying her more, as it was bad for her. Apparently even for a ghost-girl. However, she must be a little lax with her rules, as Violet would occasionally find a fresh pack on the kitchen counter. Maybe it was Constance's way of repaying her for her mother's sacrifice of dying so she could have that devil-child of Tate's. _Tate._

She quickly shook the thought of him out of her head and blew a cloud of smoke into the air, it being the only thing to taint the sky. The wind blew it away in a heartbeat, and she wished it would take her as well. When she realised it wouldn't, she flicked the cigarette down and watched the glowing butt drop below her. Letting her eyes scan the garden for one last time, she might have caught a figure scurrying off behind a corner, the moonlight reflecting off its blond hair.

* * *

It wasn't like he was watching her. At first. He was in the garden anyway. After all, he had decided to go out, because he found himself forgetting what the sky looked like and losing track of the seasons, which was undeniably a sign of him slipping into insanity. _It's not like he was born a little mixed up._

He was constantly avoiding Violet, yet yearning for and somehow always crossing paths with her- though he always found a nook to disappear into before she could see him. That was how she wanted things, after all.

Lately, he had decided the best way to do what she wanted and "go away", was to stay in the basement. He had Nora there, who would wail all the time, but at least she was some sort of company. And he felt like she was the only one who actually liked him. _Surprise, surprise. _

Whatever span of time was defined by lately, could only be guessed at. He often felt suspended in a dream-like state, barely realising what was going on around him.

The pictures from the past would come to him at times like that. Walking into school heavily armed. He was a fighter, a knight. Ridding the world of dirt. Or at least that's what it used to be like.

Something had changed in him. Instead of the euphoria, the satisfaction that he used to feel when thinking back to that day, there was an underlying sense of, not exactly remorse, but an uncomfortable feeling that gnawed at his subconscious. For the first time he saw the faces of the students, saw their eyes, all wide open, pleading him not to shoot. Like that changed anything.

And there she was, the subject of most of his thoughts. He couldn't understand. Well, he could, but he didn't want to. Sometimes Tate asked himself, if she also lay awake at night, wishing he was next to her.

He just wanted her to talk to him. Perhaps they could figure things out; be like before. The thought made him snort. _Bullshit._ Like that was possible.

She looked like what he imagined an angel would look like. His mum had told him about them back when he was younger and when she actually had time for him, because she wasn't busy sucking off their neighbour. He had quickly learned to hate her.

Then it suddenly hit Tate that he was standing out in the open, for anyone to see. _For Violet to see._ Hoping she hadn't caught a glimpse of him, he tried to disappear round the corner. He hated having to hide like this. It tore him up inside.

It fucking hurt.

**A/N: This is my first chapter of a new fanfiction I have been thinking about for a while. Sorry about how short it is, I just want to test the waters a little (But don't worry I have the next chapter almost finished!). Please R&R, I would greatly appreciate it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: None of the characters portrayed are of my own creation. American Horror Story is the creative property of Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk. Rated T.**

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

The room was dark, barely illuminated by the little light that came from the other side of the door. All of the windows were shuttered. Maybe so you couldn't see the dust that had collected over time and was settling on books and furniture like grey snow. It wasn't like it mattered to anyone anyhow. Her dad hardly ever entered the room that used to be his office and nobody else cared to leave their chosen spots around the house.

At first she didn't know what she was looking for, but something drew her there, and as she stumbled around in the dusty, black mess that was a room, she accidentally knocked the coffee table, which was stupidly placed between an armchair and the couch.

Standing in the dark she cursed.

As Violet bent down to pick up books and papers she had sent into disorder, she had to search the ground with no light to indicate where she had to look.

There was of course the option of opening the shutters on the windows, but she didn't want anyone to see and disturb her.

Kneeling on the floor, she slid her hands across the wood, mainly gathering up dust. The couch to her right was the next place she looked. However, as she moved them under the piece of furniture, her fingers met something, which immediately made her flinch. What she had touched felt a lot more like skin than paper.

She pulled back her hand and clasped it over her mouth so she wouldn't scream.

However, there was no one but herself in the room, as she heard no breathing or movement.

Violet carefully walked to the door, always facing the couch.

She wondered why she was shaking so much.

_Stop being so stupid. It was probably just a leather-bound book or something. Come on now. Go and pick it up and have it done with. What are you so afraid of?_

She walked back to where she had fled from a minute ago; slowly at first, then, rolling her eyes at her behaviour, at a normal pace. Without giving herself time for second thoughts, she dove under the couch and quickly grabbed whatever was lying there, determined to be able to leave straight afterwards.

What she held in her hands was indeed a book, but it was bound in a material that lacked the tough and dry texture of leather. It was soft and warm like the skin of a living, breathing person. She could hardly tell the difference between the material that had been used for the book and her own skin.

Wide-eyed and fingers shaking, Violet stared at the book in her hands. She had two possibilities: a.) leave it where she had found it or b.) take it with to her room.

She chose the latter: Partly because, for some weird reason, she didn't want anybody else to find it; but mainly because she was _bored _with her life; or should she say death. Nothing ever happened and this would entertain her for at least a few hours. There was also something that seemed slightly off about the book, which she liked.

Deciding that nobody would notice it tucked under her bulky cardigan she left the room and slipped into hers as quickly as possible.

This, for some reason, gave her a sense of privacy, although she knew that anyone could come in at any time and there wasn't really much she could do about it.

Her eyes slowly adapted to the bright sunlight that was pouring into her room from the window, which she couldn't remember having opened.

But this didn't concern her at that moment and was briefly noticed yet not thought about.

She still stood leaning onto the bedroom door, unconsciously digging the nails of her left hand into the wood, while the right one supported the weight of the book.

Her beating heart and fast, shallow breathing expressed her feeling of impending disaster, which wasn't founded in anything going on at that moment.

The longer she stayed in that position, however, the stronger this anxiety became. Waves of goose bumps raced up and down her body; her mind voiced its frightened thoughts as a whisper in her ear. The ordinary features of her room seemed to be warped into something surreal, despite not changing their appearance.

These moments left her gasping for breath, as if she hadn't breathed for several minutes.

In one swift motion she flung the book away from herself, without even having thought about doing anything of the kind. Something made her think that it was responsible for what she had felt just then, but she quickly dismissed the thought telling herself not to be ridiculous.

Exhausted and confused by this experience, her knees gave in under her weight and she slid to the ground unable to break her fall. Her arms hung limp by her side. Before she could do anything, consciousness slipped away from her and was replaced by blackness.

When she awoke later on, she noticed that some time must have passed, because her room looked much darker than it had done before.

There was still no power in her limbs. Despite that she tried to drag herself across the floor to where her bed was. Any movement resulted in a stab of migraine to her left temple.

All this was too much for her to bear and she, once again, collapsed on the ground; this time right next to where the book had landed on her carpet, not quite knowing what to do.

The volume lay there and Violet decided to read it, as that was what she had dragged it to her room for, after all.

Dismissing her behaviour as some sort of panic attack, she slowly straightened up from her cowering position. As she looked around the room, her eyes fixed on the bedside cabinet, where she remembered having a pack of cigarettes.

By stretching her arm out far, she managed to reach the drawer of the cabinet and open it. But she couldn't reach inside from her position and tried to pull the drawer out further, which resulted in her pulling the whole cabinet towards herself. It toppled over and crashed onto the floor right next to her.

Violet cursed under her breath, hoping the noise hadn't raised the suspicion of any of the ghosts. The contents of the drawer were scattered on the floor. Among them was something she recognised to be a pack of cigarettes.

Pulling out the last one from the pack and lighting it with a match from a box she had in her trouser pocket, she hoped it would calm her down. She almost dropped the lit match onto the floor because her hands were shaking so much.

A few minutes were enough for her to calm herself down again. The cigarette was a lot steadier in her hand and she frequently glanced at the book on the floor, deciding what to do.

Violet had grabbed hold of the book before even deciding to do so. She held it in front of her face. For the first time she had the opportunity to examine it closely. It looked like any ordinary leather-bound book. The gold lettering on the front and spine bore the title "Tales of the Pure, the Obscure and the Sinister". However, despite its ordinary appearance, she still thought that the red material the book was bound in felt like the skin of a living creature.

In some places the material looked worn and she could see that the pages were yellowed. Overall it appeared to be quite old; possibly as old as the house.

Violet's interest was rekindled and the goose bumps she got when touching the book weren't uncomfortable anymore. They were more like those one would get when witnessing something especially exciting.

Feeling a lot more at ease and like herself again, she almost laughed at how ridiculous she had acted only hours ago. She supposed the excitement of something new in the house, coupled with the fright she got when finding the book in the library had simply been overwhelming to her.

Lost in thought Violet had forgotten all about her cigarette and was harshly called back to reality by being burnt on the finger by the glowing stump. She laid the book back onto the ground and walked to the window to throw the cigarette butt out into the garden.

A crow that landed on a branch of the tree opposite her window made her think about what she had been told about the freedom of birds and she, more than ever before, longed to have that freedom.

Something, however, was weird about the bird, as it stared straight at her, not moving once. Its beady eyes fixed on hers.

Violet shuddered and closed her window and the curtains. Despite all this, she still felt like she was being observed.

Her room was now completely dark, but she couldn't open the curtains again. The bird was, no doubt, still there.

There was really no reason why she should be afraid of it, but she felt like she needed some time alone to make up her mind and calm down and the bird disturbed that.

There was only one light switch and it was on the wall on the other side of the room, which was still in a mess with half her possessions scattered across the floor.

In a few strides she crossed the room and reached the light switch, but noticed it didn't work.

She stood there frozen for a moment, then realised their electricity must have been cut and cursed under her breath. There was no way she could read the book without a source of light.

On top of being haunted by a bloody history, the house was now also enveloped in darkness for 12 hours of the day, which undoubtedly added to its many charms.

Violet once again found herself in a dilemma. She wanted to read the book on her bedroom floor, but she would need candles to do that. However, she didn't know where she would find any and didn't really feel like searching for them in the pitch-black house, never knowing when a ghost might jump out at her and also didn't feel like accidentally falling down the staircase or tripping over something that was left on the ground by someone.

Given the situation she didn't really have a choice and decided to wait until morning.

* * *

He didn't really know what lead him there. It was kind of also his room, which actually gave him the right to be there, but he would hardly believe thoughts like this. Everything about it spoke of her. From the clothes that lay scattered on the floor by the bed, to the laptop on the desk.

This was hers and he had no business to be there. There was nothing he could do there anyhow and what sense was there in being in her room, if she wasn't with him?

But Tate couldn't bring himself to leave, no matter how well he knew he should. He was held there by some weird combination of hope and remembrance.

Remembrance because of a stack of CDs he saw standing on a table. Because of her bed. And hope because he also saw a book about birds, which he picked up and held in his hands, his body being racked with sobs.

More than anything else, this showed him she hadn't forgotten about him. And perhaps his presence in her mind would, at some point, lead to forgiveness.

He could hear approaching footsteps and threw the book away in shock. His only possibility of leaving the room, without her knowing he had been there, was through the window.

He tore it open and stood on the window-ledge, jumping out before having time to think about the consequences. The two metre drop passed him in a haze and he felt the collision of skin with the pathway; the crunch of his breaking bones.

The feeling made his vision go black. In too much agony to even groan, he lay there. But in death pain passed faster than it ever had in life and after this first sensation of being crushed to a pulp, he quickly recovered.

The physical suffering was gone, but the tears on his cheeks, the devastated look in his eyes betrayed that it was still felt; although the origin of this pain had nothing to do with his fall.

His hands scraped the ground while Tate tried to get a grip onto something so he could drag himself up. As he lifted his eyes off the ground, there was someone standing over him.

"Now, has the strength of your passion brought you to your knees or is there some other reason you're crawling around in the dust?"

He knew her voice and without looking at her face Tate could tell Hayden had a smirk on her lips and eyes dark from disappointment and the resulting hate.

"Don't think the girl will be too thrilled when she finds out you've been creeping around her room. What'd you do there anyhow? Jerking off to her cardigan?"

Every syllable was mocking him and Tate could feel anger well up inside. Still on the ground he charged at her and exclaimed something that was a cross between a groan and a scream.

Hayden easily dodged him by stepping aside and let out a bitter laugh.

Tate didn't try to get up; he didn't think he was strong enough to. He felt Hayden crouch down next to him and jab her elbow between his shoulder blades, making him exhale sharply in slight pain and a rage that was becoming stronger with every second. Hayden's mouth moved close to his ear.

"Look here you little shit: Don't even think about it. You all think you can do what the fuck you like. I'm not having it. So hold back your fucking anger issues."

She still held him in place with her elbow, but Tate knew he was a lot stronger than her anyway.

Hayden moved her mouth even closer and he felt her reduce the pressure of her elbow.

"Why'd you even bother with her anymore, anyhow? You could have me, you know. Don't you want that?"

Her elbow was now only resting on his back.

"I could make you feel better than she ever has. What's so special about her anyway? She's-"

In one moment he gave way to his rage and whirled around punching her in the face pushing her away from him. The strength of the blow sent Hayden crashing to the ground.

His breathing heavy, Tate tried to keep his voice quiet.

"Don't you dare speak about her. She is so much more than you could ever be. You are nothing."

Hayden moved a hand to her face to stop the trickle of blood from her temple, which is where her head had collided with the pathway. She then started:

"She doesn't want you, Tate. Violet hates you and she's right to do so."

He put his hands around her throat and Hayden hissed through gritted teeth, this replacing her previous screaming.

Tate held her by the neck, lifting her off the ground slightly. In his eyes Hayden could see such rage, as she had never known to exist.

"Shut up. Shut up, you- never say her name again. And don't shout; I don't want her to witness this or I swear I will hurt you more than you ever knew was possible."

The lack of air in her system made Hayden's poker face dissipate into one of suffering, begging for mercy. Tate thoughtlessly threw her to the side and left the garden as quickly as possible, hoping his run-in with Hayden hadn't drawn Violet's attention.

When he found his way back to the basement, his fury still hadn't subsided and Tate tried to find some outlet for it. However, punching the walls did little to make him feel better and it was only after he had bashed his head against them a few times, that his pain and anger were removed for a while by him fainting.

* * *

**A/N: So this chapter is a bit longer. I hope you like it. Thank you for all the views and the review. It means a lot to me! :) **

**It might take a while until chapter three is up, because I am on holiday for the next three weeks, but I'll see what I can do!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

* * *

Both Tate and Violet woke when the first rays of the sun shone through their windows, though both under very different circumstances.

Violet was in her bed and, as soon as she opened her eyes, felt the anticipation of some discovery or other she was to make in the book.

Tate found himself lying on the concrete floor of the basement, face and hair coated in his dried blood. There was a red mark on the wall where his head had collided with it and the sight of this blotch seemed to remind him of all the pain that sleep took away from him for a few hours.

His longing to be with Violet and knowledge that he himself was what was standing between them came crashing over him all at once. The irony of his situation made the sting all the more bitter.

Tate knew that he should think that what he did was wrong. He really did, but at the same time he found himself feeling sorry about what he had done, not because his deeds seemed wrong to him, but because he regretted that they had parted him and Violet.

He was still lying on the floor, the blood from a wound that had healed as soon as it was made still caking his face, when Nora found him.

She came around the corner wringing her hands in despair and occasionally sighing in remembrance of her lost child. It seemed that she herself had grown tired of her own incessant wailing.

As soon as she laid eyes on Tate, Nora knelt down by his side. Her precious gown was draped over the dusty ground. She held his head in one hand and caressed his cheek with the other, all the while muttering.

Her feelings towards him were almost motherly, as Tate made her think of what her own dear son might have looked like. She delicately ignored the fact that he was a homicidal rapist. All that mattered to her was that his facial features; his hair and eye colour were just like those of her son. This served as a canvas onto which she could project all the sweetness she wanted to remember her baby for.

Because of this, the sight of Tate deeply affected her and, before long, tears were dripping down onto him.

"Oh, my dear boy-"

A sob interrupted her speech. Nora took her hand from Tate's cheek to cover her mouth with it.

She tried to speak through her fingers, but could only babble. It took some time before she was composed enough to properly talk again.

"Your poor head. Why must that golden hair of yours be tainted with blood? Oh, Tate! Tate, tell me- will you leave me too?"

Another sob stopped her. Tears were freely flowing down her cheeks and onto his. Tate grabbed her waist and hid his face in Nora's stomach.

This seemed to confirm to her that his wound was fatal. Tate, however, only wanted to be held by someone and he found this someone in Nora, who had always been like a second mother to him.

The sound of Nora's wailing filled the small room in the basement, where they were. It brought Tate back to reality and he pushed himself away from her.

"Don't worry, Nora. I'm fine. Ghost wounds heal quickly, remember?"

She choked on another cry of despair.

"But; but Tate! Your head-"

This word made Nora wail again. Tate sat up and pushed hair away from his temples.

"Everything's fine, see? Get up now or you'll ruin your dress."

Nora didn't budge, not quite believing his words. Tate sighed and added a little more affectionately:

"Please, Nora. I'm fine and I'm not going anywhere, don't worry."

He held his hand in her direction to help her up. As they stood facing each other, Tate looming over Nora, her wide eyes showed him that she still worried.

This time Tate caressed her cheek, then turned to leave. He couldn't be with her anymore. Her caring only made his actual mother's deficiencies even clearer and she made him think about Constance, which is something he tried to avoid, if it was possible.

Before he knew what he was doing, Tate had left the basement and was standing in the corridor leading from the front door to the main staircase.

Tate knew why he was there and didn't, all at the same time. Lately, the thought of speaking to DR. Harmon had crept into his mind more and more often. He knew he had to, but wasn't quite sure how to and was afraid of being rejected again, as he had been before.

At the same time he also knew that DR. Harmon was the best way to get closer to Violet. Perhaps they could even resume therapy, if that was necessary for Violet to let him in again.

Tate knew exactly where to find DR. Harmon. He always spent the mornings in the living room. There the sun shone through the windows and the small stained-glass panels in them, casting colours over the wooden floor.

All Ben really did there was just sit and watch the wandering lights on the floor.

None of them in the house really had any occupation to pass the time with. Time itself had become an unknown concept to them; a distant memory from the past when it was known to pass and ultimately lead to something. In the house it had stopped in its tracks, and with it also the inhabitants' wish for it to pass.

He found DR. Harmon where he had expected to. There was an armchair in the living room that was positioned so it was facing the window looking out to the back garden. In it was Dr. Harmon, his arms slung over the armrests and unfocused eyes fixed on the ground beyond his feet.

Tate entered the room not bothering to be quiet. He knew DR. Harmon wouldn't notice him either way. It was only after he actually stood right behind him and started speaking, that Harmon even realised he was in the room.

"Look, doctor. I've been thinking quite a lot lately. About myself, about everything that's happened. It all seems so different to me now, you know? Now that I see the consequences, I guess. And I was wondering, because I felt a change in myself and I think it only really started with my therapy-"

Tate groaned and wiped his face with a hand. Now that he was speaking to DR. Harmon words failed him. The purpose of the conversation became blurry to him. He wasn't even quite sure of it anymore. Did he want to resume therapy? Beg him to make Violet forget his deeds?

Every second he spent standing in that room, behind a man he wasn't quite sure was even listening to him, made it clearer that DR. Harmon wasn't his way back to Violet; or sanity, for that matter. He had long given up on that, partly because he thought the man couldn't bring back something that had never existed, partly because he didn't see what good it would do him, now that he was dead.

DR. Harmon was listening, though, and started talking without moving his gaze from the dancing lights.

"What do you want Tate?"

The sound startled the addressed, who was hiding his eyes behind a hand he now pulled away from his face.

"I don't really know. It's just that you helped me. You really did, doctor; and I guessed that, well… I guessed that maybe you could make me even better. My brain, I mean."

"I did nothing for you, Tate. And I'm not your doctor; or anyone's for that matter. All my work- I believed it too, for a while. But we can't help people in that way. Even if I could, I wouldn't help you."

Tate could feel heat balling up in his chest at Harmon's speech, but was determined to ignore it. This man was his best bet.

"Look, doctor-"

"No, Tate. I can see you are remorseful. But I can also see that this is for the wrong reasons. You don't regret your deeds."

"But I do! Honestly, I do."

"No, Tate. You regret their consequences. That is something different."

The sigh Tate uttered at this sentence sounded more like a growl.

"I think I needed the consequences, doctor, to see that what I did was wrong. To truly see, I mean."

"Don't call me doctor."

For the first time during the whole conversation Harmon turned back to face Tate. He saw a person full of cracks, where broken pieces had carelessly been put back together.

"You see nothing, Tate, but your self-pity. I have said it before: I can't treat you anymore. The things you did to me- to my family. Wasn't it enough for you to kill us all? To condemn us to a fate far worse than death: That of being trapped forever, not truly belonging to either the realm of the living or that of the dead? No, Tate, you show no remorse and do you know why? You can't _feel _remorse."

Ben turned back around, thereby dismissing Tate from the room. Tate's head was bowed in a submissive position. His eyes, however, showed no trace of that feeling. He was failing to concentrate on suppressing what was a part of him, which was almost larger than he himself was. The bad had always outweighed the good in him and the dark the light.

He walked up to DR Harmon's chair and put his hands on the back of it. His head was still bowed and it was in this position that he spoke again. Tate was trying to keep his voice low, yet to add enough force to it to show he wouldn't leave. All his efforts were in vain, however. His voice was a harsh, shaky whisper that sounded like hissing:

"You must help me. I need you, don't you understand?", his voice was continually swelling with emotion, "This isn't just about me-"

"What are you going to do, Tate? You have already killed me. There is nothing left to take from me anymore. You can hurt me, but you are hurting yourself more. Whatever you do against me, goes against you as well. We all have reasons for deserving to be stuck here; everything happens for a reason, you know?"

Tate's fingers itched to move. He placed his hands around Ben Harmon's neck. He, however, merely scuffed.

"Well, do it. It makes no difference. At the end of the day, we'll be just as dead as we are now, and I suspect you even more so than me."

Tate didn't want to hear DR Harmon speak anymore. He knew he was right, and this infuriated Tate.

His head still bowed, his breathing slow and heavy, Tate jerked his hands to one side, revelling in the snap of bone he felt under his fingers. DR Harmon' s head fell limply to one side, but before Tate had left the room, He again sat erect in his chair, tracing the light and shadows on the floor with his eyes.

* * *

_A/N: I realise it's been an awfully long time since I#Ve last updated and I'm terribly sorry about that. My laptop broke when I got home from my holiday and I haven't really been able to write. Sorry again! :)_


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